


In A Bit of A Bind

by Lasgalendil



Series: Starlight and Song [17]
Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dwarf/Elf Relationship(s), M/M, Rope Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-19 05:47:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4734824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elf loves Dwarf.<br/>Dwarf loves Elf.</p><p>...Dwarf loves games. Elf takes some convincing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In A Bit of A Bind

My love is a Dwarf.

I knew this when I married him. And yet…

I have learned to ‘fuck him’, as he requests. And now that I know how I find it a joy to kneel before him and take him in my mouth, or to crouch and let him come inside me, or to sit astride him as one might a horse. I do these things for him because he is a Dwarf. He loves me. And he needs fucking. (He says so.) I know now why the oil he brings to our bed, why he insists on soft, silk sheets (even though it seems silly, for one so…very Dwarven?), I have learned that he will protest when I comb him, but he does enjoy it.

[I see it in his eyes.]  
[And his…well.]  
[He is hard. Hard from my combing. I will not ever take his complaint serious again!]

Not as much as I enjoy combing him, or being combed by him, but he does enjoy it. He does. Only…only he thinks it ‘teasing’, thinks there must be more, thinks it’s what one might do before… _puith_ —his fucking—or after, but he doesn’t think it is. Fucking. Not entirely.

He is a Dwarf. He isn’t odd, just different. Only—

—Only I wish he would understand. Some nights—many nights, most nights even—all an Elf wants is _mathad_. Combing. Hands on hair and ears and neck. Combing and nothing more.

I have learned to tolerate his strange combs, not just his hands. He complained most loudly when I said it wasn’t as intimate, that it wasn’t _him_ , not his hands on my ears or hair, but he is a Dwarf, he delights in making things, crafting things, giving gifts.

[How could my kinsman be so wrong in this?]  
[I have never known him to be greedy, not in this!]  
[Although he complained loudly and at length about my hair—my hair!—as if there was some fault, some flaw in my hair and not his combs!]  
[He has made the…teeth? shorter now. That has helped. My hair is not as thick and full, not as wooly or curly as his. He is a Dwarf. I am an Elf. Is it little wonder that our hair be so different?]

So I have many combs. Combs of wood I know not the names of, from far off places like Harad and the Forodwaith, combs of silver, combs of mithril, and a lovely ( I do not have the words for it, it is he who can best describe it. He is, after all, a Dwarf!) marbled? green? comb he carved from a solid block of stone from Khand. He loves this stone, calls it “bloody difficult” to work with, “A fucking pain in my arse” to keep clean and undamaged, built a house of carved wood and silk to keep my comb in…and says he will carve me another hundred like it, just so he can see his skill and the envy other Dwarves’ eyes when they see me wearing it.

[I do not pretend to understand. He will not comb me, not love me, not fuck me in front of my people or my gods. But I can do this. I can wear this for him.]

Oh, he will complain about my singing, but I have caught him pretending to sleep, content to listen. And he will yell and curse and tantrum like an Elfling about “your Mahal-damned cold feet on my fucking arse!”, but he will not sleep in a separate bed, nor will he consent to not sharing covers. He will of course never admit to it, but he enjoys my cuddling.

I have learned about myself as well. I enjoy his hands more than his combs, holding him in my mouth so much more than any other he would have me do, that I would rather comb, braid his beard than his hair. I do not know why I enjoy him pulling my hair, but I know he does so in gentleness, and it hurts so good. I know he is appalled by the idea of others watching us, but that I do not mind, do not see why he is so ashamed of me, why he hides me away. And then—then! He has the gall to be unreasonable about my disinterest in seeing myself fucking him! Elbereth knows I know I fuck him? I have him! My beautiful Dwarf! I may look in his lovely eyes as I love him! Why in Arda would I want to see me? Oh, he has not taken it lightly, but I have insisted, and so he has taken all the mirrors away from our bed.

[I made him leave my mirror, of course. The copper one he keeps covered. If he so delights in dressing me, adorning me, why should I not admire?]  
[I am not vain, I am beautiful.]  
[He wouldn’t understand. He is, after all, a Dwarf.]

But it is evening again. He is back from all his councils and his book-keeping and his gold-counting and whatever it is that Dwarves do when they are out Dwarving? all day.

[I have watched, and still do not understand.]  
[The gates and walls look no different to me.]  
[I will not say this, of course. He would only pull his beard.]

We have had our supper, have dismissed our seven Pages, and he sits on the side of our bed undressing. But he has—oh, my love, why have you?—brought a rope of silvery _hithlain_ to bed with us!

“I don’t understand,” I tell him. “Why?”

“Why what, you daft creature?”

“Why…” I do not know what to say. “That? Why rope?”

“Mahal-damnit, Elf!” he snarls. “Must you question everything?”

“I am an Elf,” I sniff. “I am curious. It is my nature. It is not my fault—just as there was no fault in my hair—that you do not explain yourself and leave me to wonder.”

He sighs. Kicks off his boots. “For fucking, you stupid, sodding Elf. Why else would I bring it to bed with us?”

So it is to be another night of fucking for us, then.

[I—I had hoped not.]  
[Had even brought my comb, the one he made for me inside its special box, and placed it by the bedside.]  
[His side.]  
[I thought—]  
[I do not know what I had thought. That he would see—? That he would be content to comb me?]  
[That he would _at the very least_ comb me?]

“For fucking?” I ask him, eyes wide. How in Arda does one fuck with a rope? What can he mean—he can’t mean…not to tie me? To choke me? “What do you mean to do with that rope?”

“I could gag you and save myself from your incessant questions, you stupid, fucking Elf!” he grunts, pulling his tunic up over his head and discarding it on the floor.

[I wish he wouldn’t. I know we have servants—Pages—who clean up after him, but it seems…unnecessary? When his closet is so very near?]  
[I blame Naneth.]  
[She is always cleaning up after him. He has learned this from her, and I will never unlearn it from him, I fear.]  
[And he has the gall to name me spoiled!]

Usually I enjoy this show. This slow undressing. Watch him come unclothed, unbound for me. Usually I complain about his messiness and poor Mzisi having to pick it all up come morning when she could instead be practicing with her spear or helping poor little Yi to set our table, and remind him of Balin and his snide comments and how much trouble he will get in and how much trouble he will cause and their bickering and would he please, please, please my love just pick up your own clothes like the grown Dwarf you are? But not tonight. Tonight I am too nervous.

…tonight I am afraid.

“What, Elf?” my Gimli asks me sharply.

“I said nothing!” I protest.

“Aye,” he grunts. “’Tis most unlike you.”

“I do not sing constantly,” I tell him.

“You bloody, fucking Elf!” he tells me. “You’re singing now!”

“Am not,” I lie, and pull the covers up over my head. “Not singing!”

“Where are you going, you pretty Elf?” he asks, climbing into our bed beside me. “Are you hiding? Is this the game you would rather play? I am quite content to come find you!”

“No,” I beg him. “No games. Not tonight. Not here.”

“You’re not here?”

“No.”

“So if I lifted this coverlet I wouldn’t find your pretty arse naked and waiting for me?” he teases. “Or your pretty, soft lips already wet and full? Or your pretty cock already hard, wanting my hands, my beard?”

“No,” I tell him. “Not here at all!”

“Not here?” he asks me, bemused. “No clever Elf hiding in these blankets, under these pillows? No pretty, perfect Elf hiding himself from me? No teasing Elf waiting to be unwrapped?”

“No,” I say. “No, there is no Elf here at all.”

“No Elf? Not even under these covers?” he wonders. “Then whose shapely foot is this in my bed?”

I pull my feet back under the blanket, away from prying eyes and lips. “No one’s.”

“And these slender fingers?” I feel his beard, his breath tickle against me.

“No one’s!”

“And this pale hair like gold spun into silk?”

“Not mine.”

“Not yours? Not my Elf’s?”

“No.”

“Such a shame,” he sighs. “And I had a mind to comb it, too. But I mustn’t. Not my Elf’s. He wouldn’t like it if I went around combing any head that found its way here to our bed.”

“He wouldn’t mind so much, I think,” I try.

My Gimli chuckles, and it is a groan, a growl, a gentle laugh all at once. How can he make so many sounds in such a little one? “And you said you don’t like games,” he says. “Liar.”

“I don’t,” I insist. “I don’t like games at all.”

“No?” he asks.

“No. I don’t like games and I don’t sing constantly. You said something about combing?”

“Did I?”

“Yes,” I peek my head out, if only a little. “Yes, you did.”

“So there is an Elf in my bed after all,” he grins.

“Only if there is also combing in your bed,” I tell him. “And no ropes.”

“Elf—“

“No ropes.”

“Elf—“

“No Elf here,” I pull the blanket back over my face. “No Elves here at all.”

“You don’t even know what I mean to do with it!” he growls. “Bloody, fucking—“

“No Elves here,” I remind him. “Not even the bloody, fucking ones.”

“—talking blankets, then,” he fumes. “You are so very fuckable, so very beautiful, such a Mahal-damned cock tease, my Elf. Why must you be such a prude?”

“Am not.”

But my Dwarf only sighs. “You don’t even know what that means, do you?”

“Whatever it means, I am not!” I do not. Don’t wish to. He means it as an insult, and that means he is probably right.

[He usually is.]

“And what, you stupid, fucking Elf, do you have against my rope?” he grunts. “It’s Elvish-make, for fuck’s sakes! Soft as silk! It won’t bruise or pinch your pretty Elvish skin if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Nothing,” I lie. “Nothing.” What have I against your rope? What have I against your rope, indeed! That it is in our bed, that you brought it here for fucking, that you have not asked me, not explained to me why you have done this, why you are not satisfied with what I give you when already I give to you so, so much, that you have not said what I have done wrong, how I could better please you, why you wish to, to punish me, to tie me up, tie me down, to—to choke me? I do not know. I do not wish to. I had thought—we had spoken—that we were both forgiven for what our fathers had done.

“Elf—“

“Goodnight!” I say, and blow out my candle. I do not wish to yell, to shout, to argue with him, not to fight when we could instead be combing, not to be called his stupid, fucking Elf or a Mahal-damned fool. I am tired. I am frightened. I wish this rope had never come to our bed, come in between us! “I will sleep now!”

“You don’t sleep,” he says.

“You do.”

“I’m not,” he grunts, blowing out his own candle and nestling next to me. I pull the coverlet tighter about my face, my ears. “And someone has all the blankets.”

I relent. Let him under. Feel him hot and hairy and naked beside me. He holds me, which is nice, presses himself up against me, head against my shoulder, beard and heart against my back where I might feel its every beat, his short legs curled behind mine, and his—Oh. Well, I suppose that is also not altogether unpleasant.

But he will not wish to stay this way for long. He will want to fuck me.

…and soon.

He brings his arms around me, holds me to him. Strokes the bones between my neck and chest. “Elf,” he whispers. “Elf?”

I try to ignore him, pretend to revel, but he is too quick for that now, knows when I am waking and when I walk in dreams. “You can’t fool me, you wicked Elf. You’re bloody awake.”

“Yes,” I say. “I am awake.”

“What ever happened to ‘Goodnight, I will sleep now?’” he asks.

“There is a sweaty, hairy, smelly Dwarf with rough hands who steals my covers,” I say. “I can’t sleep. Not now.”

“Aye,” he grunts. “Me neither. And what would you propose we do?”

“Do?” I ask. “I don’t know that we must do anything.”

“If you will not relieve me, Elf, then I will have to do it myself,” he warns. “And I know how much you hate to watch.”

Then can you not, will you not—not comb yourself—in another room? Away from me? Why must I always comb or be forced to watch you comb yet you will never comb me, not even when I have so plainly asked?

[His hands, his wonderful hands are against my skin, and not my hair.]  
[And the comb, the lovely stone comb from Khand that he has carved for me is so very near, so very close.]  
[Can you not reach up and take my hair in your hands?]  
[Will you not sing?]  
[Will you do nothing?]  
[…Will you not do away with your foul rope?]

“No?” he asks me. “Not even now? You would rather me touch myself, come in my hands instead of your pretty arse, your pretty mouth?”

“You are a Dwarf,” I whisper instead. “You will do what you must.”

“Bloody hell, Elf,” he rolls away. “I’ve waited all day for this.”

[So have I, my love. So have I.]

“Mahal-damned pissy Elves,” I hear him mutter. But our bed doesn’t shake, and I do not feel him leave, and yet I do not hear the sound of the rope falling softly to the floor…nor the sound of the hinges of the scented box opening. He will not comb himself, he will not comb me. He is too angry, too prideful to admit when he is wrong, I know. He will never say “I am sorry.” I will never hear “I was wrong.” He does not say “Forgive me.” He is a Dwarf. I knew this when I married him.

[And yet I did marry him.]

I must try. Must try again. I nestle next to him, bury my face in his hair, breathe in his strong scent. He smells—still, after all he tries to bathe—like dust and oil, like grease and bread, like brewed beer and felled wood, smoke and pipe, like musk and mud. The scent of the city, of his day’s journey down to the gates, horse and heat, the cart-ride to the Pelennor past all the fields of hay and fruit, the honey and nectar of all the many flowers lingers in his hair still. I smell the salt and fish on his breath and know what he ate a midday and that he has not spoken of it for all rivers lead to the Sea. I smell the oil and tang of his furnace and know he has not come straight home to me as he says but instead has gone again to his forge to make yet another ridiculous present when all I yearn for is his time. All this I know from the way he smells. Can he not read for me then the sign of a comb?

“Bloody, fucking Elf,” he sighs as I begin to comb him with my hands. There is sweat still against his scalp, slick and hot. There are tangles in his woolly hair, knots that I must ease with skilled fingers. There are specks of hay, pockets of dust, the slick patch where he has tried to sleek himself with oil yet grew too impatient to rub it in. I feel it catch and crinkle beneath my fingers, listen to his breath as my hands brush his skin.

“Mahal-damnit, Elf,” he sighs. “Must you sing?”

Yes, I think. I am an Elf. It is what we do.

[He is a Dwarf. I do not expect him to understand.]  
[Yet I wish he would try.]

“My Gimli?”

“What, you stupid, sodding creature?”

“Will you—do you not wish to—“

“Fuck’s sake, Elf. Spit it out!”

“Combing?” I ask him.  
“More bloody combing?” he sighs. “Alright, Elf. Comb away.”

“No, I—you—“

“You want me to comb you?” he rolls. “Is that what this is about?”

[And your rope, my Love.]  
[Especially your rope.]

“Fucking hell, Elf,” he huffs. “Will you not just tell me these things at once instead of picking fights?”

[I am not the one who picks such fights, my Love.]  
[This is obvious to everyone but you.]

“Very well,” he says. “I'll bloody comb you, if that’s what you want.”

I kiss him, kiss his very ear tip then roll over so he may comb me. But he does not reach for my comb, he reaches for—for that cursed rope!

I cringe away.

“What, Elf?” he sighs. “What have you against my rope? It is the perfect rope for this sort of thing. Here, hold it.”

“No,” I say. “No, I do not wish to.”

“Do you trust me so little?” he asks me sadly. “Has anything I have ever suggested been so unpleasant that you cannot trust me now?”

“There—there was a cave,” I offer.

“Aye. But then there was a forest as well, if I remember,” he says. “And trees, Mahal-damnit. What sort of Dwarf has ever fucked in a tree?”

“You would know better than I,” I say. “I know so little of Dwarves.”

“Aye. And I of trees. Or Elves. But I do know, and am knowledgable, on the matter of fucking. And I say you will enjoy this. Have you known me to be wrong?”

“I—I thought you would comb me?”

“Aye, you silly, stupid Elf. I mean to,” he says. “Now lay still and let me tie you.”

“No, no Gimli, I—“

“Peace, Elf,” he kisses my hair. “I will not tie you tightly, and I will untie you if you ask.”

“But—“

“But what, you stupid, fucking Elf?”

“But why,” I ask him, heart in my throat. “Why must you tie me at all?”

“Not to bind you,” he soothes me, hands on my ears, breath against my face. “Not cage you. Not hurt you, my pretty, perfect Elf,” he says. “Not angry. Want to see you. Want to see you with my rope around your arms and wrists, want to watch you as I tie them, want to see you held tight, know I was the one who tied you, that you let me, that you could ask to be freed at any moment but that you choose to stay.”

“But—why?”

He sighs. Tries again. “Do you like the combs I have made for you?”

“Not so much as your hands,” I turn my eyes away, do not wish to see him angry, to argue.

“Aye, love. I know,” he is so gentle now, so very gentle, his large, rough hand under my chin to make me look at him. “But I can’t comb you, not all the time. But you can wear them, yes? Wear them anytime, anywhere, think of me? My hands?”

I had not thought of that. I tell him so.

“And you like to wear them, yes?”

I nod.

“And the clothes I choose for you, dress you in, the beads in your hair, the bracelets on your arms, the rings for your pretty fingers and the nets in your hair—you like them, yes?”

“Yes?”

“But you had never worn them before. Not until me.”

I shake my head no.

“And you would not have known you would like them, would never have known if I hadn’t suggested it?”

“No,” I frown.

“Oh, my Elf,” he kisses my lips. “You have the most delightful pout! But if you did not know you would like your combs, or your dresses or your jewelry that I have made for you, how do you expect to know whether you would like it if I should tie you?”

“It is,” I try to ask, try not to shake, to tremble. “Just—just a game? You are not, not angry with me?”

“You stupid, fucking Elf, I’m always angry with you for something or other. I’m a cantankerous, selfish old Dwarf—and a Firebeard, at that! I get upset at the stupidest things! But no, I am not angry now, I do not wish to tie you out of anger,” he says. “I want to tie you so I may see this rope against your pale, pretty skin. So I may comb you, comb you out until you cry my name and come for me. Is that so much to ask?”

I must think on this for a moment. “Only—only combing?” I ask him.

“Only combing,” he promises. “Though I may kiss your pretty, pointed ears if you beg me too.”

“I will not beg,” I sniff. “But you may tie me, if you wish.”

“You will,” my Gimli laughs. “You will.”

* * *

There are things, he says, that I must know.

If the ties are not tight enough, I must tell him.

[I won’t.]  
[I would much prefer them to be loose.]  
[I think?]

If the ties are too tight, I must tell him. I will know they are too tight because they will hurt. I may be cold, or, or this word—tingle?—I do not know what it means.

[I don’t dare ask.]

And there must be a word—or words—that I can say to make him stop, untie me, cut me free even, and immediately.

“I—stop?” I ask him.

“What?” he says. “No!”

“Why not?”

“Bloody hell. You just can’t use ‘stop’ for your safe word, alright? Trust me.”

“No?” I suggest.

He sighs. “Elf, it’s not romantic.”

Neither is tying, but I don’t tell him. “I—Elbereth?” I ask.

“And how am I supposed to remember it means stop when you use it so much?” he laughs. “Her poor bloody ears are sick of our fucking!”

I think. “Please?”

“Elf, you say that when I fuck you, too.”

“ _Leithio?_ ”

My Gimli only sighs. “It means ‘stop’, doesn’t it?”

“No,” I argue. “That’s _daro_.”

“Aye. But it means something similar.”

I try to smile, bat my eyes, but I find I am too frightened.

“Alright, Elf. ' _Leithio_ ' it is, then. I suppose it’s better your way—you’ll actually bloody remember.”

* * *

This, this—tying? It takes quite some time. This game, it must be, must mean, something special to him. For him. I have never known him before to be so gentle, so patient. He puts me on my face, pulls my arms behind my back, talking, talking all the while, calls me his pretty Elf, his perfect Elf, says how the _hithlain_ looks so dull, so sheenless against my skin, how the gold of my hair outshines its bright silver. Takes my arms, takes my arms and loops the rope carefully against my shoulders, a harness like one might place on a horse, speaks all the while about my archer’s arms, how lean and long they are, so soft yet so strong beneath his touch. He loops the rope about itself behind my back, pulls another round against me, binds my arms lower, tighter, asks me if it is too much, too tight, if he should tie me slower, stop tying, and with every new loop he runs his fingers against my shivering skin, checks to make sure it is not too tight.

“Won’t pinch you,” he promises, rubbing my back. “Won’t hurt you, my pretty Elf. My perfect Elf.” And finally, finally he has finished. Loops the last of seven knots against my wrists. “There,” he breathes. “Is that too tight?”

I writhe. Wriggle. His ties hold me fast. I feel my heart pound, my breath quicken. Does he mean—could he mean—to hurt me?

“Shh, Elf,” he calms me, “shh.”

I cannot move, but they do not _hurt_. I am not cold. “I—you will comb me now?”

“Of course, Elf,” my Gimli promises. “And how should I comb you? Your pretty jade comb? Your mithril comb? Your beech-wood brush from the Greenwood with inlaid pearl? You want hands, my Elf? My hands in your golden hair? Hands on your flushing, pointed ears? Is that what you want?”

“Hands,” I gasp. “Just—just hands.”

“Won’t hurt you,” he whispers. “Won’t fuck you. Only comb you, my Elf. Comb you and nothing more.” And he does—and oh! He combs! For the first time he really combs! He works his fingers, his hands, through the ends of my hair, gliding not tugging, never pulling, never yanking, only smoothing, caressing, holding, fussing, finally—finally!—combing my hair. He combs as an Elf—as a lover—should comb.

So I sing for him, sigh for him, that he might know to continue, know how I ache and tremble that he might hurry, that his hands might find my skin, my scalp, my ears! I am burning, full, swollen, I am flushed and hot from his combing, his breath, his touch against me. I am crying, crying out for him, for his hands, for more, as undone as though he were fucking me, fighting against his ties that I might rub my ears against his fingers, hands, lips, beard—anything!—rather than endure this sweet torment.

“Want me to kiss you, Elf?” my Gimli whispers, breath and beard tickling against my skin. “Kiss your pretty, flushing ears?”

“ _Û!_ ” I cry, try to remember, to say it so he may understand. “No!”

“No?” he asks, surprised.

“No,” I beg him, breathless. “Bite! Please?”


End file.
